Looking Through Angels
by WhenILookAtTheStars
Summary: The boy came to our door, tall, with black narrowed eyes, in his uniform of tan with the red arm band. A black spider stretched across his forearm. And I accepted his gift of ashes, and my father’s wedding ring.


**Title:** Looking Through Angels

**Rating:** PG

**Genre:** Drama

**Summary:** The boy came to our door, tall, with black narrowed eyes, in his uniform of tan with the red arm band. A black spider stretched across his forearm. And I accepted his gift of ashes, and my father's wedding ring.

**Disclaimer:** You know the drill, my characters are mine, their characters aren't.

* * *

_When all we wanted was the dream_

_to have and to hold that precious little thing_

_like every generation yields_

_the new born hope unjaded by their years _

Sarah McLachlan

The sunlight tastes like cigarette smoke and finds me; sliding cold, apathetic over my eyelids. There's no dawn, only day, and there's no dusk, only night. Both sad, and stale as day old bread left in an empty cupboard. I might as well be an empty cupboard. I tighten my grip around my bare knees. My skirt covers only so little. Momma was right. It is too short. But I wasn't planning on spending the rest of the ruined evening crouched in the veiling black, my back against the hard silver concrete of an alley wall. I definitely wasn't expecting that.

I don't want to open my eyes. I want to keep them closed, keep them safe. There're scarred, and jaded, like the dried blood that runs a jagged line from my lip. Crimson; colors from behind my eyelids and from my lip. I dare. I blink cautiously, ever so quietly. I see grey and the sun; a rolling ball of doughy light, dropping alert yellow from its white core. It's sticky and hits me hard.

I wish it would rain.

I stand carefully, not letting my back leave the indifferent safety of the wall. My dress is wrinkled and the navy blue color is stained at the collar. Momma won't be happy about that. I'm not happy about it. Such a trivial thing, but if I don't think about the small things, I'll go mad.

I walk, limping a bit because of my shoes. I ran so hard last night. I was on fire, uncontrollable fear, anxiety, and sadness. That's what they wanted anyway, right? My favorite pumps, the black ones that looked so sophisticated. The heel broke. Damnit. Clutching the strap of my purse in one hand and locking the elbow of my other, I hobble home. Memories touch and go.

Last night was hell.

Excited flashes of music, lifting, letting go, sailing on a silver string of never ending bliss. And I held so tight to it. I didn't want to go home. Momma was dying. Dead. A dead soul dwelling in the body of a living woman. A walking corpse. A coffin. Hate is said to be a strong word, but there is no way in any language to describe the feelings I had toward the bastards. Toward those who had done this to my family. To my father.

The boy came to our door, tall, with black narrowed eyes in his tan uniform with the red arm band. A black spider stretched across his forearm. And I accepted his gift of ashes, and my father's wedding ring. Momma opened the package, me and Derek nearby, watching. No one breathed. It's a good thing too. Papa's ashes might have blown away. He might have disappeared. There was no crying, no screaming. Just silence. And it was more terrible than anything. Anything I ever have heard. And momma stared. And Derek's cheeks were damp. And my eyes glazed over.

I couldn't stay in that house anymore. Every time I looked in the mirror I saw papa. It was a known fact; Derek looked like momma, and Adele looked like papa. I looked like papa. Momma had not said anything since. That was two days ago. Two long days of impenetrable deadly silence. Derek cried. That terrified me. My older brother, my idol, my god. Derek, so strong in himself, weeping like a child. We were two years apart. He was 18 and I was 16, and we were fatherless. I couldn't bear it anymore.

I put on my lipstick, a brilliant shade, evaporated blood. I curled my hair, hooked my stockings, and slipped my navy blue dress over my chemise. My shoes were black as the sky and pulled my coat over my arms. I would go to the Bismarck. I would walk without fear. I would show them that I was not beaten down easily. I walked from my room. I sounded like a stallion, a mare, walking on the wood floor with my thick heels. I was a night sky mare with shiny hooves. I trotted to Derek's room and looked in. He sat with his back to the door, like momma, just staring out the window. Beside him was the little wooden box. Swastika, black spider.

I ate the air, and walked as quickly as possible out of the house. He would know where I went. Derek knew what I was. I was an escapist. Daydreamer, loser. And I would go as far as possible from the wound. They were the salt and I was wind. Moving on into invisible lands. Just trying to get away.

My hooves clopped on the cobble streets. Blue light streamed from the stars above. I looked up and smiled.

* * *

"Papa, is there really a God" I had asked.

"Look at the stars, look up and you tell me" he had answered.

Four year old eyes gazing up and wondering. "I don't know papa, you tell me."

"Well, my Adele, can any man touch the stars"

"No."

"So how did they get there"

"Angels"

"Maybe. Or did someone greater put them there"

I was quiet, and thought about this for a while, still staring from underneath my bed covers. Still breathing. Fear not for your still breathing.

* * *

I picked up my pace, walking as fast as possible, just trying to get to the club. I needed music to take me away. To lift me up on the wings of trumpet, cello, brass serenades of far off glittery lands across the ocean that lay like treasures. Like Atlantis. I walk into the Bismarck, beneath the neon sign that sprinkles my skin with magenta. I come alone tonight. Usually I might bring Frieda, or Annora, maybe both. Sometimes Derek would come. Sometimes not. But tonight, I come alone. I put my put my coat and purse at a lonely table and watch the couples moving along with a song. Slow. All wrapped around each other. Except for one young man. He dances alone. And I recognize him, and I breathe deeply. It's the gift giver. The ash carrier. Carrion. How dare he come here? How dare.

I walk onto the dance floor just as the music picks up. He still dances alone, like me. The loners, the losers, the daydreamers. Or maybe I'm just the daydreamer. Maybe not. I forget the ash boy, I forget the couples, everything except for the music. It's my blood, it's in my veins. It's my salvation. My savior. And I dance. I let go. I fly. I fly with my hooves. I'm Pegasus. I'm an angel. I'm my father's daughter. You maybe find me course, uncaring. For not weeping in a black corner, mourning in that way. I am mourning. I'm dancing a tribute. Weaving a legacy. I'm giving it to the stars, and hoping he's here with me. Hoping he dances too.

I don't notice the black clad young men. Boys I know from school. Boys I've grown up with. They burst in. Black spiders. The music has stopped and screams take over, but I won't stop. They can't make me. They stopped my father; they cut off his feet, burnt up his soul, and left me the ashes. But they can't stop me. I'm his wedding ring. Purified by the fire. I am the gold. I am the gold Pegasus, and they are the spiders. I won't be caught in their web. I fly. Even when the boy, when his black club finds my chin, and strikes me to the ground. And the metallic of blood touches my tongue, I'm still flying. I try to stand but he kicks me. I look up at him. He looks down at me. Thomas Berger. I know him. And he knows me.

* * *

I'm six again. I was being teased at school. Thomas led the little group against me. Momma told me it was because he liked me, and boys like Thomas don't know how to show affection. When I told Papa, I was crying.

"I hate Thomas. I hate him."

"Now, now Adele. Angel" Papa said softly.

"I'm not an angel." I sobbed.

"Yes you are. And you have angels all around you but their invisible, and you know what happens when an angel stands in front of someone, between you and Thomas lets say" Papa continued.

I looked up and shook my soggy head.

"If you look at someone through an angel, even if their being mean or nasty, its not that you can't see the person for the angel, but on the contrary, looking through an angel at a mean person makes them beautiful, and you don't hate them." He said, reaching out his thumb and brushing away a last cold tear from my cheek.

* * *

Angels fly in this room. Like music. And one flies in front of me. I see Thomas Berger. Not the angry, bitter Thomaskicking me. But the scared, afraid Thomas. The lost Thomas. And I pity him. I'm not the only loser here. And he notices me. I've stopped struggling, but stare up at him from the floor. He makes me want to cry, not because of the wounds he's inflicted, but because of what he has become. He notices the tear that has made its way down my cheek, mixing with blood. And I stare, and he stares. He backs off, lets me stand. In the chaos, I race from the room, out the back. No one notices me.

I sob as I run, the ensuing pandemonium continuing around me. I run. And all I am are legs pumped, sweat dripping, eyes weeping. Legs and sweat and eyes. I run to the river and hide in the shadow of the alley. Night passes with no one coming this way, as I cling to the wall, and sob. I shake, and shudder. I am empty.

Morning finds me an empty cupboard. Momma will be worrying. She probably already sent Derek out to find me. I am walking in the lonely light of morning. I limp and stay close to the buildings.

Terror grips me once again. I hear the motor of a bike. An H.J on wheels. I hardly breathe but keep on walking. Just keep on walking, just keep on walking. My other heel breaks, and I fall to the cobble stone, shaking I attempt to take off my broken shoes, praying the bike will pass me by, not notice me. But I hear it stop, right behind me. I hold my breath and freeze. He can't see me if I stay really still, I convince myself.

"Adele." Says a voice. I recognize it.

Turning, I look over at Thomas Berger. The angel has left remnants across his face, for its no longer steel. It's no longer impenetrable. In fact, he looks like he's been crying. I'm still sitting, waiting for him to take me away, send me to a work camp. I wait.

He shifts uneasily under my gaze"Need a ride"

I let out my breath and stand, my dead shoes in one hand, my purse hanging lifeless from my shoulder.

"To where"

He shrugs and looks up; he has blood on his chin too"Home"

I close my eyes and open them. I walk over to his bike and get on the bike. He revs it up, and we fly. The spider and the Pegasus. My sore arms wrapped around his torso, closing my eyes and letting the morning wash over me. I let my soul slide back into its place. I let my spirit fill once again. My heart returned, along with my breath. And I think about what momma is going to say when I get home, and I wonder if Derek will pull his protective older brother act as his little sister returns home on the back of a H.J's bike, and I smile.

I think of papa, and angels, and God. God's Stars.

Fear not, for your still breathing.


End file.
